


Goodbye Brendol

by Esmethewitch



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Beaches, Bread, Canon Divergence, Dismemberment, Don't mess with Mama Hux, Evil Space Wives, Exhibitionism, F/F, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Goodbye Earl, Love Confessions, Maratelle Hux is a pretty good mom, Mild Gore, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Politics, Power Imbalance, Rated For Violence, Romance, Softness, The tentacle monster eats Brendol's corpse, Unplanned Pregnancy, additional details in author's note, but it's fairly mild, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22581322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmethewitch/pseuds/Esmethewitch
Summary: Maratelle Hux and the Kitchen Woman go to the beach and kiss beneath the stars. It's a shame that they have Brendol Hux's dead body in the back of Maratelle's speeder to ruin the mood. But at least they get to watch a Royal Kraken feed; the one under the cliff will always appreciate a free meal.'Cause Brendol had to die.Title and most of the plot inspired by the song "Goodbye Earl" by the Dixie Chicks.
Relationships: Armitage Hux's Mother/Maratelle Hux
Comments: 25
Kudos: 12





	1. Afterwards

“Stop here,” the redheaded girl in the passenger’s seat of the bantha-leather upholstered landspeeder said, breaking nearly an hour of silence. She wasn’t technically a girl, though she was younger than the driver. She had to be older than twenty, but she was quiet about her age, as in all manner of personal things. Maybe she did this to project an air of mystery. Or maybe she was just painfully self-conscious and shy. Or perhaps it was a combination of the two.

“Why?” Maratelle Hux did not understand the significance of this particular empty stretch of coastline. Still, she pulled off to the side of the road and disengaged the door locks with a click. Normally, she never used them. If she did, and the locks served their purposes, her actions would earn her harsher retribution later. But on tonight of all nights, she could lock the doors of her own landspeeder and enjoy the likely false sense of security it brought her. 

The girl skipped out and gestured to a break in the guardrail. “This place is pretty. And it’s midsummer. I go here sometimes, but I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet.”

Maratelle blinked at the dark waters, twinkling as they reflected the dim crescent moon and starlight. It looked just like any other stretch of Northern Arkanis coastline.

“We have to get down to the beach,” her companion said. “You’ll see it properly there. Mind your feet; the tide’s up and the rocks can be slippery. I’d take off your shoes and stockings too, if I were you.”

Maratelle sighed. She knew these waters were clear and cold. Swimming at the beach was only for the masochistic. “Why?”

“So you can see it properly.” The girl shifted. “Please? I think you’ll like it.”

“Alright. But if I cut myself on a shell…”

“I’ll bandage you up and kiss it better, and you can say ‘I told you so’. Worst case scenario, we can use the wound as a cover story if I was sloppy and people are asking questions. But I am very good at this sort of thing, and I don’t think you will hurt yourself like this. I’ve been coming here for years and never got cut.”

Years. Interesting. Maratelle was once again struck by the cold, ancient shame of not knowing the name of the girl who warmed her bed for the past two years.Of knowing almost nothing of the girl who could make her moan as she painted her clit with swirls of her talented little tongue. Maybe she was as bad as her husband. But then, with this girl, she was terrified of ruining things by taking something that was not freely offered to her. That used to happen far too often to both of them. 

“Fine, Beautiful. You win.” In lieu of a name, she’d settled on calling the girl a series of endearments. It worked well enough. She opened the door on her side again and unlaced her boots, peeled off the stockings. Tonight she’d opted for the practicality of trousers, so she rolled both legs up below the knee. It had been too long since she shaved; stubble poked at her hands.

Together, they descended a stack of boulders that could be charitably called stairs. The waves did not crash here; they gently fell to the pebbly beach like breaths. The seafoam glowed a bright blue. Maratelle never won prizes for Natural History during her years at Academy, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to do that. The stones were hard but smooth beneath her bare feet.

“Bioluminescence,” the girl breathed. “Little things that live in the water. Waves crash, they get angry and glow. You only see them ‘round these parts in the summer, when the currents from the south bring them in and the water’s warm enough.” She kicked up a splash of water, droplets flashing like sparks. Maratelle peered down and saw a host of specks shining like the stars above them. The girl beamed at her.

“You were right,” Maratelle said. “This is pretty. I’m glad we stopped here.” The only sound for the next few minutes was the lap of the cold sea around their ankles. A tiny fish darted around them, leaving a glowing trail in its wake. She turned to the girl. “But not as pretty as you.” It was a corny line, but those things worked before.

“Stop. I’ve gained roughly ten pounds in the last month; I’m getting fat.”

“You were busy and stressed. Besides, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I like your breasts, and I like having more of them.” It was true. Maratelle loved the girl’s broad thighs, soft belly, and sizable breasts. They were large yet firm, and the nipples were wonderfully responsive. Once, Maratelle had made her come from her mouth and the careful application of fingers on her nipples alone. Before that, she thought that orgasming from stimulation there was only an urban myth. This girl was so good at proving her wrong. “I’d like to kiss you,” she said. Maratelle had seen other couples lean towards each other and pull their partner in for a kiss, and she’d done such things in her younger days. She didn’t do that now.

The girl’s white smile gleamed in the moonlight. “And I’d like you to kiss me,” she replied. Maratelle wrapped her arms around her lover, one hand brushing the cloud-soft red hair and holding her head in place. Their lips locked and Maratelle tasted her, tarine tea and fresh bread. She was the perfect size; a head or so shorter than Maratelle, slim enough to fit comfortably between her legs but delightfully soft where Maratelle had hard muscle and poky bone. 

And the girl had a beautiful mind, too. She’d chatter away about isomer conformations and doodle the mechanisms of chemical reactions on scraps of paper the way other people would draw dogs, clouds, or flowers. Thanks to her, they were here tonight, kissing out in the open with no fear of discovery. “I love you,” she whispered.

“What?”, the girl asked.

Maratelle’s breath hitched. 

“I didn’t catch what you said,” the girl explained. “I could barely hear you, and with the waves, well, I didn’t process it.”

“I love you,” said Maratelle, more loudly than she’d meant to. Stars, she felt like a schoolgirl clumsily blurting out her feelings to her crush. Only to be rejected.

“Well. That’s a surprise, but a good one. I think I love you, too.”

“You think?”

“I don’t know how love is supposed to feel,” she explained. “But it makes me happy to know that you love me. Maybe that’s it?” She slipped her hand into Maratelle’s. 

“You were surprised?” Yes, they’d been sneaking around the Academy and the kitchens, fucking steadily for two years, but they never put a label on the thing.

“I thought you were just in it for revenge. Anyway, you don’t even know my name. Though in all the good romantic tragedies, nobody knows anyone’s name either. But I’m done with tragedy.”

Maratelle’s stomach churned. “You never told me your name.”

“You never asked.”

“Oh. I probably should have.” Maratelle’s socialite mother was scolding her from the grave. But mild face-blindness, nervousness that was later diagnosed as social anxiety, and a naturally retiring nature all kept her from moving in the “best” circles. She was lucky to marry Commandant Brendol Hux. Everyone told her so. 

“No time like the present, I guess”. Now the girl was laughing, chuckles turning into a dry wheeze. “You had a mystery lover! Oh, stars, this is just like some smutty novel. But better because I’m actually getting it.” She recovered her breath. “My name is Brittanasha. But you can call me Britta; those of us afflicted with traditional Arkanian names shorten them.”

“Ah. Pleased to meet you, Britta.”

“Oh, kriff.” Britta was cackling again. She shifted. “I can’t feel my toes anymore. We should go back. Besides, we have some stuff to do. It’s midsummer. I don’t want to leave him wrapped up in those tarps in the boot for any longer than we must. And we need to drive up the Queensroad and go to the cliffs. There, the water’s deeper, the currents are faster, and we have a friend waiting to help us. “


	2. Hard Knock Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was supposed to be just murder and porn, but it grew a plot. Sorry. Hux's mom shows up again in Ch. 3.

The blurry day Maratelle Hux met the woman she would later marry was one of the worst in her life. And she’d had more than her share of bad days. Everything had gone to plan so far, for better or worse. Brendol shipped out to Arkanis before her. So she could have time to move out, to slowly, painfully extricate herself from her friends, family, and “hobbies” on Coruscant. 

For many women of her status, this process involved tearful goodbyes, a settling of dressmakers’ and hairdresser’s bills, and the rehoming of a stable of prize shaaks. For Maratelle, it involved exchanging her updated comms address with a certain senator’s aide in exchange for a promised favor or two. And hours carefully spent holonet-stalking everyone who was anyone on Arkanis. It helped that this list was rather short. But by he time she was to travel to the Academy to be reunited with her husband, she knew the minutiae of Governor Zahlis’ political career ( the man had a couple of noteworthy scandals, and went to quite an inferior post-secondary Academy. If she ever had to verbally spar with him, she had plenty of ammunition.) 

She found the hourly forecast for the area surrounding the Academy. Her wardrobe, formerly flimsy cocktail gowns and impractical shoes was now updated to waterproof jackets, sensible, heavy skirts, and unspeakable things in tweed. The tweed things were dreadful. But they were warm, and by all sources they were what the locals wore here. If her husband was anything but a schoolmaster, she would not have been afraid to dress “exotically”. Here, though, she would have to look the local definition of respectable.

This was just another mission, she told herself. She’d survived the gauntlet of balls and teas by treating each social occasion as a mission to gather intelligence. She was bad at names and faces, so she tracked everyone of importance in her local sphere of influence by spreadsheets. Name, appearance, family, known scandals and weaknesses. For particularly forgettable people, she added a picture to their section.

A wallflower in a world that mandated she shoot her way up towards the sun survived this way. Even thrived, to all outward appearances. And this game would be so much easier to play on Arkanis. How wrong she was.

It turned out that her information was two years out of date. Governor Zahlis was replaced by an enigmatic fellow called Manote. His disappearance was a topic of speculation. She learnt this sitting atop a rickety stool in a pub that her mother would have sooner killed her than let her set foot in.

Brendol was supposed to collect her at the shuttle station. He didn’t. At this point in their marriage, many things ceased to surprise her. He’d forget things, overstep the invisible borders she put up between them. Sometimes he hit her. On those occasions, Maratelle cursed herself. She meticulously recorded every such incident in her journal with the care of a seismologist tracking earthquakes. She had all the data to predict such outbursts, but often she chose not to and paid the price. At least today’s instance of negligence would give her the upper hand over him later. He neglected his responsibilities, so he owed her. At least he still honored that.

Maratelle had dragged her two heavy bags from the station, refusing all offers of help before plopping herself down in a pub best described as “rustic”. The beer she ordered was so thick that she fancied it could be used as tiling grout. Surely this wasn’t normal. But all the locals were slurping their turbid drinks with no sign of distress, and she reckoned it would be bad form to ask for a spoon.

Some were talking politics; there was a general grumbling about land reforms. Now, farmers could not cultivate land less than seventy-five meters from the shoreline. This was to combat erosion, but while it may have stabilized the cliffs by the sea, it wore the lining of the farmers’ pockets thin. “This never would have happened under Zahlis,” moaned a short, ruddy man. “He always knew what was what. Me an’ my folks tilled at the edge for generations, an’ nothing never happened. S’ a crime, I’m telling ye.”

“Is Zahlis not the governor?” Maratelle asked. This was new. 

“I wish,” snorted his companion, a wrinkled lady who was constantly readjusting her floppy red hat. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for two years. His adjutant stepped up, and he gets another five years, on account of bein’ new to the position an’ all.” Red Hat took a swig of her beer, to Maratelle’s surprise without choking.

“He just disappeared? No large sums of money missing from the treasury? No letters, no body?”

“Yep”, replied Red Hat. “Where have you been living, lady?”

“Coruscant.”

“Ah.” The woman pursed her lips. “Wait, you’re Commandant Hux’s wife, aren’t ya?” 

Maratelle sighed. It seemed that her life would forever be tied to her husband’s.  _ Twenty more years at most,  _ she told herself.  _ I make sure he gets plenty of steak, eggs, butter, and brandy. He leads a stressful life. One day, it will all come together in his coronary arteries, and I’ll get his money.  _ It wasn’t any sort of assasination plan, but it helped her sleep at night. “Yes.”

“Oh.” The woman shook her head pityingly. Maratelle took another gulp of her beer-like substance, which landed like an anvil in her bladder. 

“Excuse me.” She scurried off to the women’s refresher and latched herself into a stall. Then, another pair of feet followed her in. 

“Missus Hux?” It was the woman with the hat from the bar.

“What?”

“I just wanna talk to you, woman to woman.”

Maratelle gulped and pulled her skirts back down. “Alright.”

“Keep an eye on your husband. He’s been straying.”

“I need more than that. What has he done? Can’t do much if his eyes are the only thing that’s wandered.”

The boots in the next stall shuffled. “It’s gone further than that, I’m afraid. There was a kitchen worker, a pretty redhead…”

“How do you know this?” Friendly “advice” was often bait.

“I do flour deliveries to the Academy. I see things.”

Oh. 

“You’re taking this well,” her unseen informant continued. “No cryin’, no ‘He loves me, he would never do this…’ “

Maratelle cleared her throat. “Boo hoo,” she said. “Does that make you feel better?” She was a Tarkin. Tarkins didn’t cry. She came on too harsh, she realized. This woman was under no compulsion to aid her. Perhaps she only wished to start a commotion in the kitchens and her home, but the news was welcome all the same. “I suppose I am simply more of a realist than most,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”

She washed her hands and emerged from the refresher. Thankfully, her bags were still there. She’d have to arrange her own transportation. Her husband wasn’t coming, hadn’t picked up his comm earlier. Maybe he was out committing adultery this minute, and that couldn’t go on. “What does one do for a taxi around here?” she asked her informant.

In short order, Maratelle loaded herself and her luggage into a rusty old landspeeder beside ten crates of quacking ducks. She had credits, and this farmer had time and fuel. He left her on the steps of the Commandant’s mansion, and she plucked a few stray feathers from her coat. She took a few deep breaths and rapped at the door. No answer. She cast her eyes around the doorway and found a buzzer. She pushed the button. Silence.

Out of desperation, she tried the door handle. It opened. Unlocked. How odd. Maybe, if she left her bags in the hall and was very quiet, she would catch them at it. Years ago, she never would have fantasized about finding her husband in bed with some hussy, but now she longed for concrete proof of his infidelity. Back on Coruscant his eyes wandered and their rooms were occasionally haunted by the scent of unfamiliar perfume, but that was different. He was discrete, then.

She tiptoed up the stairs. Yes, this place was unfamiliar to her, but she’d procured a blueprint of the building and memorized it. Bedroom was up the stairs and to the right. She flung open the door. Empty. He had to be at work this time of day, at this hour that was the pocket change of the afternoon but not enough for a full evening. She could unpack. She should unpack. Or she could go down to the Academy in hopes of tracking down the girl.

That would probably be the more fruitful act in the long run. She grabbed her purse and set out for the Academy, less than a Coruscant city-block away. It was a short distance, and she was filled with righteous fury. She’d seen maps of the place, so it was but a moment’s work to double-check the signs on the mossy greystone buildings until she reached the kitchen.  _ Kitchen woman.  _ That description was vague, but she knew the woman was redheaded; that alone was uncommon. And she had to be younger than forty. That narrowed things down a bit, especially if she was a school dinner lady. 

She marched through the dining area, full of boys in grey uniforms poking dejectedly at slimy portions of tinned peas and dry roast. “At least there’s pudding, that’s always good,” remarked a tall, dark-haired boy with all the gravity of an Admiral reporting that they still had  _ half  _ of a star-destroyer’s engines at full power. Maratelle walked over to this solemn young fellow. “Excuse me, which way is the kitchen? Specifically the food preparation areas.”

The entire table stared at her. The boys pointed to a set of double doors. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” said the pudding speechmaker, “but are you on the Inspection Committee?”

Immediately, he was interrupted by his companion. “Stars, Mitaka. You’re such a square. And would someone from the Committee say they were on it? I thought the inspections were supposed to be surprises.”

“We’d know by now, “ said Mitaka, nearly at the point of tears. “The Inspector has to interview us. The regulations say so. And we’ve never been interviewed.”

“Wait, never?” Now Maratelle was surprised. “Aren’t the inspections supposed to happen once a year?”

“The key word is  _ supposed to  _ , “ said Mitaka grimly. “Failure to accommodate an inspection is an Operations Violation. If an Academy has more than three direct Operations Violations in one year, the place has to close for a term and not reopen till the offending staff are replaced and it passes inspection.” The boy couldn’t be older than sixteen, but he frowned like a sad grandfather. His round, pale cheeks were marked with red scars, a map of possible Health & Safety violations. “I was hoping this place would get cleaned up by the time my little brothers start coming here”, Mitaka went on. “I tried to tell Mum what it was like in this place, but we only get one fifteen-minute holocall a month, and that’s monitored.” He shifted uneasily.

“Anyway, if you’re looking for things wrong with this place, you actually won’t find much in the kitchen. Roast Night is always terrible, but this new lady does amazing things with beans. And the nerf steak and kidney pie is the only thing that makes us want to keep on living.”

Maratelle never considered herself the maternal type, but these sad, motherless boys made something snap inside of her. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “But I still need to get in that kitchen today.”

“Understood.” Mitaka swung his knobby-kneed legs out of the cafeteria bench, unlaced his boot, reached in, and pulled out of a knife. He sighed, set it on the table, brought his foot up on the bench, and rummaged some more. His companions got up and huddled around him, shielding the boy from view. 

“Aha.” He retrieved a datastick. “If I give this to you, will you promise to give it to the right people? On the Education Board, that is. If they see it, they legally can’t show this to our teachers. And under no circumstances should any instructor here read this thing. I don’t know how much things can get worse here, but I don’t want to find out.”

Maratelle nodded. “I promise,” she said, and accepted the datastick. She put it in her pocket. “I can’t guarantee you boys anything, but I’ll make a go of it. After I see the kitchen.”

They watched her as she went through the durasteel double doors, ostensibly to inspect what lay beyond them. That assumption wasn’t too far from the truth. 


	3. In the Kitchen

“Hello?” Maratelle glanced around an artificially lit cavern of shiny metal implements, pots hanging like stalactites from the ceiling. Saying hello was her first mistake. But “keep your hands off my husband, you slut” was too inflammatory an insult to direct at the wrong person. 

“Good evening. May I ask what you came here for?” A girl with frizzy red curls tied up in a black kerchief glanced at her impassively. “The menu for the rest of the term is posted on the Academy holosite. The Potential Allergens list is up there too. Just tell me what you’re looking for, Miss.”

The girl returned her attention to a giant ball of dough, beating it down with floury fists and then mollifying it with gentle kneading. Maratelle watched the girl’s motions and swallowed hard. The way the girl’s hands folded and caressed the dough bordered on obscene. The girl let out a soft hum, stood back, and poked the dough with two white-dusted fingers, smiling when the yeast-fueled bulge sprung back. She rinsed the coating of flour and stray gobs of dough from her hands, and grabbed a large loaf pan. She sprayed it with aerosolized cooking oil. She looked up. “What do you want?” All trace of her earlier servility was gone. Yes, this girl couldn’t be much older than twenty, and redheads weren’t numerous here.

“This is a food preparation area, and unless you wash your hands with disinfecting soap and put all that hair in a scarf or net, I’m not allowed to let you in here,” the girl chided. “So you’d best tell me what you want or leave.” She began to separate the dough into smaller loaves, lifting each little section of springy dough and rolling it between her hands. The ends of the loaves twitched perkily under her ministrations. Maratelle tried not to let her gaze linger on this. She took a couple of deep breaths to collect herself.

“You know what you did,” she said. “I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me. “ Maratelle clenched one fist. This was it. She had her now.

The girl’s already fair complexion paled. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean by that, Miss,” she said. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

“A likely story,” said Maratelle. “I doubt there are two redheads of your age working in this kitchen.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And I am no ‘Miss,’ she continued. “It is ‘Mrs’. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Yes?...I rather think it does.” The girl bit her plump lip and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know you, lady. I don’t know what you are implying I did, and it is none of my business whether you are married or not. I should leave now, if I were you.”

Maratelle stalked up to the girl, leaning over her shoulder. The girl tried to shrink away, but her broad hips met the countertop. She froze. Maratelle was grateful for having a height advantage of a foot or so on the girl. “My husband is Commandant Brendol Hux”, she hissed in her ear. “Will you still tell me that my marriage is none of your business?”

Tears formed in the corners of the girl’s eyes. They were as blue as a calm sea reflecting a clear sky. Her round cheeks were sprinkled with freckles.  _ She’s beautiful,  _ Maratelle thought.  _ A beautiful slut,  _ she amended. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl breathed.”I didn’t know he was married. I mean it. I’m not in the business of stealing husbands, honest.” She twisted away from Maratelle and began to drop the loaves into the pan, flattening each one down with her hand. She bowed her head over her work. A couple of tears splattered down on the flour-coated durasteel worktop. 

_ This was all too easy,  _ Maratelle mused. Perhaps she could get her to quit. Decent cooks shouldn’t be too hard to find. A sob escaped from the girl, and she clasped a hand to her mouth. Immediately, she fled the workstation and scrubbed her hands furiously under the torrential stream of the faucet with slimy pink soap. But this prompt response to a breach in sanitation protocol did not stop her crying.

“I need this job, “ she said, her voice cracking. “I never wanted any sort of trouble, that’s why I…” She turned off the water and gave up, pressing her clean, strong hands against her eyes in a vain attempt to stop the flow of tears. Maratelle noted that her fingernails were pristine and filed short. She had to stop looking at this girl’s hands. Five years without bedding a woman was turning her into a sad pervert.

“That’s why you what?” Maratelle softly asked. She rummaged in her coat pocket and offered a handkerchief. 

The girl took it and dabbed at her eyes. “That’s why I fucked him,” she said. “I told you I’m no man-stealer. And even if I were, you could keep him. Anyhow, I’m sorry. Sorry I helped him cheat, and sorry for you because you’re married to him.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Maratelle said. “I’m fairly certain I’ll outlive him.”

The girl started crying again. “Shh,” said Maratelle, a lump forming in her throat. “This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. If you want to leave, tell me everything you’ve ever cooked, and I’ll write you the best letter of recommendation I can. I’ll send it along to some of my friends. I know Lady Ashia is looking for a cook at the moment. I’ll pay for your transport costs too. It’s the least I can do.” If this happened, she’d never see the girl again. But then the girl would never see Brendol again. It would be for the best.

“That’s generous,” the girl said. “And much nicer than I’d expect from the wife of the man I slept with. But I can’t do that. Sorry. I can’t go off-planet.”

“Why?”

“None of your business. Besides, I don’t know if the next cook here will look after the boys the way I do.”

“What do you mean?” The girl returned to her work, filling the loaf pan with terrifying efficiency. 

“Oh, what anyone should be doing for children at boarding school. A bandage and some bacta, a shoulder to cry on, a couple of biscuits for helping to disinfect the tables, that sort of thing. They’re all so lonely. But they’re good boys. Doing the best they can under the circumstances.”

“And those circumstances are…?” The girl lifted up the tray of loaves, stretching her arms and crouching under its weight. She looked like an angel spreading her wings in preparation for flight. Maratelle quickly banished that thought.

“Open the oven door for me, will you? It’s the one behind you. If you’re in this kitchen, you should be making yourself useful.” Maratelle complied, and the girl slid the tray in. 

“This place is a joyless dump on a miserable, wet rock of a planet,” the girl said flatly. “They aren’t learning much beyond how to follow orders. They miss their families. And they have nowhere else to go.”

“Ah.” Maratelle pursed her lips.  _ I have nowhere else to go either,  _ she thought but did not say. “Thank you for being so forthright with me. I appreciate it. And I am so, so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to…”

The girl stopped her. “That isn’t your fault either. What could you have done, tied a warning label to him? ‘Caution: Married, Womanizer, and asks you if you came only two minutes in?”

“There’s an idea,” said Maratelle, forcing herself to chuckle. “He sounds like an angry Wookie when he comes. That’s enough to put me off even when he can find the clit.”

“I know, right?” The girl was smirking now. “And his face, oh kriff, his face, it’s the worst.” She shook her head. “Even if he’d told me he was married, I might not have believed him after that performance.”

“He’s very rich.”

“Oh. That explains it. But no reward is worth  _ that. _ ”

Maratelle sighed. “We’ll see.”

“Alright. I should get back to work on the prep for tomorrow. What’s your name? It seems like an insult to call you ‘Mrs. Hux’. “

“Maratelle.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you. Now, I should be off too. Now, do you know where I can find Brendol?”

“He should be in his office this time of day. Need me to walk you there?”

“No, I think I can find it on my own. Thanks for offering.”

“Okay. Drop in anytime you’re passing by, Maratelle.” The girl started wiping countertops with a sponge.

“I thought this was a food preparation area and I’m not allowed in without the proper kit. A hairnet, right?”

The girl beamed. “I’ll make an exception for you.”


	4. Losing Battle

Maratelle found Brendol’s office easily enough. He was hunched over his datapad, brow furrowed in concentration, red hair breaking free of its pomade oppression. Any other observer would see a hardworking man in motion, virtuously staying at his desk past the accepted quitting time of five. Maratelle knew better. Commandant Hux did not seem to register his wife’s presence at first.

“What is it?” he asked, not taking one glance up from the projected spreadsheets. “Make it quick, I’m due in a meeting soon and I have to leave the office”.

Maratelle grinned. It was the smile of a nexu about to eviscerate an unsuspecting nerf. After years of groundless suspicious, she would be vindicated tonight. “What sort of meeting, sir?”

Brendol yelped and started, knocking over a steaming mug of tarine tea. Cursing, he dove back at the desk to retrieve the datapad. He shook it as tea dripped rom the vents and it sizzled wetly.

After this moment’s lapse, he tried to regain his composure. “Oh, Maratelle! What a lovely surprise! I wasn’t expecting you so soon, I thought the shuttle would bring you over tomorrow…”

“You thought wrong.”

“Oh.” Brendol yanked at his beard, a tell that his wife knew was a failed attempt to hide anxiety. “So I did. Have you moved in yet? Why didn’t you comm me earlier? I would have picked you up from the station.”

“Your comm gave me the ‘away’ signal each time,” Maratelle said, tiring of this game. “Anyhow, I’m here. Thought I’d surprise you at work, if things were slow. They say things like that keep a marriage interesting.”

The greasy womp-rat bastard visibly squirmed at that, she noted. “Ah, perhaps some other time, my dear,” he said. “I’ve a pressing meeting that I can’t reschedule---”

“She’s not coming,” said Maratelle, taking care to keep her expression deadpan.

“Mara, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean…” His eyes widened into a fairly convincing expression of shock. Unfortunately for Brendol, Maratelle had seen the real thing earlier in the day. 

“Your kitchen girl. She told me everything.”

Brendol shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maratelle planted her hands on the center of his desk and leaned forward, heedless of the dampness of the tea. “While I was away, you fucked the redhead who works in the kitchen. Even complete strangers knew, and saw fit to tell me about it. People are talking, Brendol. After everything I’ve done for you, my reputation is suffering just because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

“Maratelle, don’t be like that! I’ve saved your house from financial ruin after…”  _ After the Rebels destroyed everything,  _ he didn’t say. The name “Tarkin” drew the ire of the children of conquered worlds. 

“And I won’t let you undo that by treading our reputation as a respectable house into the mud,” Maratelle retorted. “Besides, I have it on good authority that you implied cooperation would be beneficial to the girl’s career here. You can’t tell me that’s right.”

Brendol glared at her sullenly. “You married me for my money and you admitted it,” he said. “So I don’t think you have the right to judge others for trading favors.”

“Well, well…” her cheeks burned, but with fury instead of shame. “I did marry you for your money, Brendol Hux. That is correct. By some standards, I’m just a fancy whore.” She moved behind the desk, closing the distance between them. Surprising even herself, she reached up, grabbed Brendol’s shoulders, and slammed him against the wall. He let out an astonished gasp as she pressed up against him. “But  _ you  _ married me for my reputation and social connections, such as they are. As my mother has said repeatedly, they’re not much. But you took it. Didn’t even sell yourself for ten credits a go. Between the two of us, I certainly know who is cheaper.”

She could feel Brendol harden against her thigh as his pupils dilated with fear and frustrated arousal. The heady rush of adrenaline and power sparked something inside of her. Normally, she never got this far with him. “Your daddy may have made a million credits from that spice mine,” she murmured, moving a hand to his throat, “but you’re a nobody without me. Remember that.”

Brendol lunged forward. She slapped him, leaving a red handprint on his left cheek. He kept rubbing at the spot and wincing, even later when his wife frantically ransacked her purse and pockets for the handkerchief she no longer carried as blood flowed from her split lip. 


	5. Proposition

Maratelle told herself she’d not visit the kitchen again. Yes, the girl seemed kind. Yes, she was pretty. But she really didn’t need the wife of the man who’d taken advantage of her youth and perilous employment in her life. This resolve lasted all of one week, which was fairly good considering Maratelle spent that week bored to tears. 

She didn’t want to make another grand entrance through the Dining Hall, so she crept round the back and found a loading zone for food deliveries. She rapped at the door between the dumpsters. No answer. She knocked harder. The winds around her were beginning to pick up, and a light drizzle was forming.

She couldn’t be out in the rain too long; the water would smudge her makeup. And the concealer hid an ugly bruise from two days ago. The door burst open.

“Sorry,” said the flour-dusted girl, “I wasn’t expecting a delivery today---oh! It’s  _ you!  _ “ She blinked, golden eyelashes fluttering as she took Maratelle in. 

“Maratelle! Do come in, there are some biscuits just waiting to come out of the oven, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thank you.” Today, Maratelle would consider herself overdressed for a social call to a kitchen maid, wearing a black blouse to show off the string of pearls around her neck, and an ankle-length skirt the color of stormclouds. She’d carefully applied scarlet lipstick. Now she regretted this because she knew she’d be leaving red smears all over the promised teacup.

The girl was sneaking glances at her even as she busied herself with taking out a box of teabags and a couple of cups. A timer dinged. She donned oven mitts and removed trays of round, sweet-smelling biscuits from the oven. She scurried back to the tea things, picking up the kettle and frowning. 

“It’s all cold!”, she exclaimed. “No clue what’s wrong with the stove, I’ll have to get somebody from Maintenance in…”

“Did you turn it on?” Maratelle craned her neck forward and saw that all the burners were in the “off” position.

“Oh no, I didn’t! Ugh, I’m such a scatterbrain today, so....” she trailed off.

“So distracted?”

The girl looked at Maratelle, eyes darting to the top few buttons of the blouse that she’d deliberately left undone on some instinct. Likely hunger. She bit her lip.

“Perhaps. I’ll turn the stove on. Tea will be later. Sorry.”

“No worries. I have plenty of time.” Maratelle settled herself onto a stool in an area of the kitchen that seemed like a breakroom. There was a large windowsill stuffed with potted plants, a little table, the stool she sat on, and a wooden chair. Beside that was a shelf of teacups.

“How are you doing? Has Brendol…” Maratelle burned to know the answer to this question even though she thought it better to remain blissfully ignorant. 

“He hasn’t been back here. Not since you’ve returned. Does he know that you know?”

Maratelle sighed and willed herself not to rub at the bruise on her cheek. It would hurt and the foundation would smudge. “Yes. He isn’t properly sorry for it, though.”

“Ah. Let me guess. He tries to pretend it never happened at all, and then says you’re ‘overreacting’ when you make the frankly reasonable demands that he apologize, grovel a bit, and then stay on a tighter leash from here on out.”

Maratelle winced. “Something like that.”

The girl shook her head, red curls bouncing. “That man is trash.”

“I know. I’ve been married to him for five years.”

“FIVE YEARS?! Force. Here, have a biscuit.” She got out a saucer and plunked a biscuit on it, golden and still warm from the oven. “Normally, I’d offer someone in your circumstances a drink, but I can’t keep booze in this kitchen. Official rules, plus I don’t want to risk the kids sneaking in and getting into it.”

“Thanks. A biscuit would be just the thing.” If Maratelle turned to drink every time Brendol wronged her, she’d be an alcoholic by now. 

She nibbled the biscuit. Stars, it was good. Sweet, chewy, and melted in her mouth. It was all she could do not to gasp in pleasure. 

“But I don’t think you’ve come here just for my cooking,” the girl said. “It’s good to see you again. Haven’t had much chance to socialize around here.”

“Mhm.” With the biscuit in her mouth, Maratelle couldn’t say much else.

The kettle began to whistle. The girl briskly went over to the stove and poured two cups of tea. “I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “If Brendol doesn’t understand, or doesn’t care how his actions made you feel, maybe you ought to get revenge on him.”

“Revenge?”

“If your husband doesn’t respect the sanctity of marriage, then nothing’s stopping you from having an affair or two of your own. You could make sure he knows about it after the fact, too. As long as the person you’re doing it with knows about the situation, you could have a bit of fun for yourself and a good punishment for him.”

Maratelle took a sip of her tea. It was much too hot. The bitter, black Tarine scalded the roof of her mouth. This idea had some merit. Yes, Brendol’s temper was dreadful, but he was a man who was hardly ever surprised. He took it for granted that Maratelle would be faithful yet did not perform the same service for her in return. And five years without a considerate or even particularly skilled lover had taken their toll on her.

“Hmm. That is a good idea. Only problem is that I don’t know many men here.” She thought on this briefly. Most of Brendol’s colleagues were over forty and hadn’t aged well. One of his superiors, an admiral by the name of Pan was older but still handsome. 

He took regular exercise as well. Unfortunately for her purposes, he was utterly devoted to his wife. The wife was an angel of a woman who spent her spare time rolling bandages and raising funds for the orphans of officers to continue in Academy. Her marriage was broken, but that didn’t mean she had the right to ruin anyone else’s.

“Oh.” The kitchen girl nervously gulped down a couple mouthfuls of tea. She then picked up a biscuit and began to dunk it in the tea, gripping it so tightly that it crumbled into the liquid in chunks. “Kriff,” she muttered, gazing at the splashes of tea on her sleeve. She swallowed, peered into the depths of the teacup, and sighed. “You might not like women, but since you’re involved in Society I imagine it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find ladies of your acquaintance who do. That way, you don’t run the risk of getting pregnant.” Maratelle’s jaw dropped. This girl was planning her hypothetical affair when they hardly knew each other. She was intrigued. 

“That  _ is _ an idea. Unfortunately, all most ladies of a certain station have is their reputations,” Maratelle said. This was sadly true even for herself. She’d gone to Postsecondary Academy and finished with a First in History. She chose that academic path mostly to spite her father, who’d once expressed a desire for her to go into engineering. 

But she didn’t count on a humanities degree closing all useful doors but marriage. Some of her classmates managed to go on in academia, or secured plum managerial and command assignments aboard Star Destroyers. But these lucky graduates were all men. Some women did manage to make something out of their History or Basic degrees, but they’d networked since the first day of arrival on campus. Maratelle never planned that far ahead in those happy days long ago. So here she was, stuck on a miserable, wet planet with a miserable, wet excuse for a man. She didn’t even like men that much.

The kitchen girl leaned back in her chair. “What if you chose a woman who was not of a comparable station to yourself and single? You get to have your fun, and then you make sure he knows about it.”

Maratelle swirled the tea round her cup in a vain attempt to cool it. “I would worry about abusing my station. I like joking about this, but I don’t think I’ll actually go through with it. If I did, it wouldn’t be fair to her.”

The kitchen girl blushed. Her pale skin was glowing, and she lowered her gaze to the floor. “I would do it.”

“What?”

“If you want to have an affair with a woman to spite Commandant Brendol Hux, I’m your man. Well. Your woman. If you’ll have me. As you know I have reason to make him suffer too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short. I just finished my senior thesis & some other school stuff. Smut & murder coming soon.


	6. Deflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut is here. Sorry about the wait.

Maratelle’s heart was racing. The kitchen girl was beautiful. She was young. Years from now, she would have to lie to her stepson about how she fell in love with his mother, and change the subject every time he asked how his father died. She should say no. 

“Alright,” she replied. “When and how do you want to do this?”  _ This is just an arrangement. She wants to humiliate Brendol. This isn’t really about me.  _ Perhaps the girl’s interest was genuine, but Maratelle couldn’t afford to get attached so she had to believe this.

“Um…” the girl’s face was flushing prettily again. Her pale skin showed the evidence of her shame. “I was thinking we could get started tonight. If you don’t have anywhere else to be.” She peered out the window, looking away from her. Maratelle followed with her gaze. The drizzle from earlier had turned into a torrential downpour. Her shirt was long-sleeved but not waterproof. It would be pointless to venture out into the rain.

“I can stay here. But we need to think about how we’ll let Brendol find out about us.”

“Right.” There was a glint in the girl’s eye. It took Maratelle a second to recognize it as lust. “If we don’t practice before hand, it’ll look fake.” She gathered up their tea things and put them in the sink. “I live in a couple of rooms above the kitchen. We can go there.” Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed beyond the windows. 

“Lead the way.” Maratelle fished out her comm unit from her handbag and tapped out a message to Brendol:  _ Commissioned Officers’ Orphans Benefit Society mtg ran long. Weather is bad. Staying with the Pans for tonight; Lindy kindly put me up.  _ In fact, Maratelle did attend that meeting earlier in the afternoon. It ran short.

Next, she opened her encrypted conversation with Lindy Pan, the good wife of a good husband:  _ If Brendol asks, I’m staying with you. Is that ok?.  _

She was halfway up the stairs when her comm pinged. Her heart leapt up her throat at the thought that it could be Brendol. It was Lindy instead: _ Noted. Showed this to the hubby too so he’s in the loop. You ok? We’re kind of worried. 2 days ago, you weren’t yourself. _

_ I’m fine,  _ she typed back.  _ Just had tea with a friend.  _

The “transmission in progress” light on the comm was flashing. They had reached the kitchen girl’s door. Maratelle looked at it again:  _ You shouldn’t have to lie about going out with friends, Mara. That’s a red flag. If you need talk to me or Gavin he’s concerned too. _

Maratelle rolled her eyes.  _ Don’t I know it.  _ Despite her best efforts, she had appeared weak. That was a problem. She barely knew Lindy Pan. Yet, she could tell something was wrong. In return for Lindy’s kindness to a newly arrived off-worlder, Maratelle had made her an accessory to adultery. However, Brendol deserved it.  _ She  _ deserved it.

The girl opened the door and flicked on a switch. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess right now. The sheets are clean though. I washed them this morning.”

Maratelle stepped in. This space was a standard Single living area, made to a standard Imperial template. There was a kitchenette, a bed and wardrobe, a table with one rickety chair, and a tiny refresher.

Yet, the girl had made this space her own. Plants crowded the windowsills; tall, spiky foliage and short, creeping vines with round leaves alike. Old fashioned paper books teetered in stacks on the shelves. That was one of the perks to living on-world; one didn’t have to worry about excessive weight from stacks of books and have to resort to holocopies. Maratelle squinted at the titles:  _ Concepts in Toxicology. Human Anatomy & Physiology, 10th ed. Biological Chemistry. _

The girl saw her looking. “I’m doing night courses,” she explained. 

A glimmer of shiny durasteel caught her eye, and she saw a collection of knives laid out on a towel on the kitchenette countertop. Many cooks had knife kits, she’d heard. But these looked altogether too small to be of use chopping jogan-fruit or root vegetables. That being said, all of Maratelle’s kitchen knowledge came from watching cooking game shows while sick. And her sporadic visits to the Academy kitchen. The girl could be chopping small vegetables very finely or eviscerating and stuffing skittermice with herbs, for all she knew. Still, they unsettled her.

The girl sat at the edge of her narrow bed and took off her boots. The apron, shirt, bra, trousers, and panties followed. She turned to face Maratelle and proved herself a natural redhead indeed. Her skin was pale save for a few freckles on her shoulders.

Maratelle’s cheeks were burning and she worried she’d be incapable of coherent speech. The girl’s clothes were sloppily puddled on the floor. This was not her room, she reminded herself, but this tiny detail bothered her.

The girl swung her legs up onto the bed and laid down, legs spread. Maratelle had a good view of her wet folds.

“Excited, are we?” Maratelle’s core ached, but she made no move to take off her own clothes. That could wait. 

The kitchen woman looked up at her, pupils dilated so far there was only a little rim of blue around each black hole. She shrugged.

“Alright. I suppose eating out is in order.” Kriff, that was not any sort of dirty talk at all. She sounded like she was expressing support for a raffle to benefit the orphans’ scholarship fund. 

“Eating out?!” The girl stared aghast, all traces of earlier lust gone. “Whyever should we do that  _ now? _ ”

Maratelle sighed. She had fantasized about those perfect lips opening and that little tongue getting to work on her clit after she demonstrated just how she liked it on the girl’s own cunt, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Fine. Tell me what you propose to do instead.”

“Have sexual intercourse! I am a perfectly good cook, and the other places to get food in this town are overpriced and bad.”

“Oh.” Maratelle coughed. Clearly this girl had never been with a woman before. “It is a euphemism for when one party licks the other’s pussy, which is slang for---”

“I know what ‘pussy’ means. But why would anyone enjoy that? It sounds unhygienic.”

“This isn’t the kitchen. You don’t have to worry about that right now.” Stars, this girl was practically a virgin. She shuddered at the thought that Brendol could have been her first. She hoped that Brendol wasn’t this girls’ first. If Maratelle hadn’t lost her virginity to another girl at age seventeen and had a string of lovers from then until her marriage, she wouldn’t have known what good sex was. “If you lie back and let me get to work, I’ll show you why most people like it. If there’s anything you don’t like, tell me to stop and I will.”

“Your clothes are still on, Maratelle.”

“So they are.” She wasn’t ready to get naked before this girl yet. There wasn’t much to see, and the night was cold. Hmm. Where to start? Her hips were full, her breasts were pert, and her sex was dripping. She removed her boots and crouched over the girl on the bed. The kitchen girl’s breathing grew heavier.

She cupped one firm breast in her hand, stroking, kneading, and then rubbing and pinching the rosy nipple. The girl moaned. Emboldened, she moved to the other breast. The girl arched her back, pushing into her touch. If only she could play with her nipples and cunt at the same time. Maratelle was seized by a flash of wicked inspiration. She moved back from the girl and pulled a couple of hairpins out of her bun. Her brown hair fell in her face, but it would be worth it .

“Tell me what you think of this,” she said, and captured each nipple in the end of the hairpin. They both burned red from this harsh treatment. The girl jerked and squeaked in response. “How is this? Does it hurt? Do you want them off?”

“No, oh no, ahh, it’s good.” Sweat beaded on the girl’s brow.

Maratelle skimmed her fingers over the girl’s soft skin and generous curves down to her wet entrance. She circled the labia and pressed down on her new lover’s clit hard with her thumb.

The girl whimpered and her pussy grew still slicker. She was ready. Maratelle shoved her middle finger inside and began to push in and out. This produced soft liquid noises, quietly obscene. As she felt the girl’s muscles relax into the rhythm, she added another finger and went deeper, scissoring her open. The girl’s walls squeezed damply against her fingers (stars, she was glad she’d filed her nails yesterday) and she’d canted her hips in an effort to take her further inside.

Without warning, Maratelle pulled them out. She grinned as the girl’s pussy clenched down on nothing. The redhead squirmed, but she grit her teeth and made no sound. Maratelle brushed her wet fingers over the hardening clit, tracing little circles around her. She then moved her ministrations down to the lips, kneading then gently pinching.

The girl cried out at this. Maratelle did it again, then rubbed her up and down soothingly. Still more wetness gushed from the girl’s entrance. 

Maratelle grabbed the pillowy pair of thighs lightly sprinkled with red hairs, squeezing them, flesh giving under her hands and revealing the sinew beneath. She kissed one inner thigh, then the other. The girl gasped. She let out a tiny shriek as Maratele bit the inside of her thigh, unsatisfied with her first mere taste of that luscious flesh. She licked the spot she’d bitten in short, teasing strokes.

“Alright?”, she asked.  _ Kriff. Should have asked that before I bit her,  _ the part of her brain not intoxicated by the salty perfume of the girl’s wet cunt and that lovely face all crumpled up on the edge of an orgasm chided her. 

“Mmph,” the girl replied.

So she bit the other thigh. She’d always had a thing for balance and symmetry; leaving only one little bruise to be hidden beneath the girl’s black, flour-dusted trousers didn’t seem right. 

_ Brendol probably bruised her and marked her up,  _ the same part of her brain conspiratorially whispered. Maratelle froze and jerked back. She did not even dare breathe.  _ I’m as bad as him. Taking advantage of a girl who’s functionally a virgin.  _

“Why’d you stop?” The girl’s words were slurred. She looked up at Maratelle with heavy lids, red-gold curls frizzing like the slipped halo of a debauched angel. “Was...was it something I did? Something I didn’t do? Can you go back to what you were doing? I’m getting real close. I need...I need to come. Please?”

Maratelle dove back in, wrenching her abused thighs apart. She stabbed at the opening with a pointed tongue, then teased her outer folds. The girl trembled and squirmed beneath her, nearly smacking Maratelle’s nose with her pelvis in a particularly passionate thrust. Maratelle drew her mouth away from the girl’s vagina. “Stay still and stop that. You’ll give me a bloody nose.”

“I need…” The girl’s eyes widened in desperation, shining with repressed tears.

Maratelle didn’t let her finish. “You  _ want  _ to come. You don’t  _ need  _ it,” she snarled. “There is a difference.” She returned her fingers to the clit, roughly jabbing at it. The girl moaned and shifted again, her breasts heaving in time with her ragged breaths. Kriff, she’d nearly forgotten those nipples. She tugged at the hairpins. The girl gasped.

She threw her legs over her shoulders and resumed devouring her, determined that she come from her mouth alone. Soon, the girl let out a long, high wail, like a teakettle on the boil. Her entire body shook. Maratelle kept laving at the raw flesh of her cunt until the tremors stopped.

There was a muffled little sob. The girl was now crying outright. Maratelle pinched the hairpins open and lifted them off the girl’s nipples, letting them drop to the floor. Her stomach clenched.  _ So she never wanted this after all. Why did she agree to it? In her sad, twisted mind, did she think she owed me this? _

“Do you want a glass of water?” she said, reciting this line out of half-remembered duty. Once, another woman had pressed a cup into her shaking hands and made her drink, and she gulped down cool water between tears. Then, she’d been lectured about new terms like “subdrop” and assured that this was a normal reaction, not weakness. Tonight had been nothing like that night so long ago in terms of activities, but maybe she’d overwhelmed her and...

“No, I’m fine,” the girl choked out. “Really, I am. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before, that’s why I’m crying. It was good.”

“Oh. Can...can I hold you?”

The girl beamed through her red eyes and a bubble of snot. “Yes. Please. That would be nice.”

Maratelle crawled into bed, squeezing the girl in her arms and letting her blot her tear-stained face on her shoulder. She moved a hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair. “Thank you, beautiful. You were so good for me,” she whispered.

“ ‘m not beautiful,” the girl muttered.

“What do you know about that? Stop. Don’t say anything else until you’re ready to admit it.”

“But I’m not,” she protested. “I’m much too---”

Maratelle pressed her lips against that plump red bud of a mouth, and explored it with her tongue. She tasted like the afternoon’s tea and biscuits.

Neither of them spoke much for the rest of the night. Maratelle reveled in the warm, soft weight of the girl in her arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: It's heavily implied that Brendol abused Maratelle and the Kitchen Woman. None of this is shown in much detail. The Tentacle Monster does not participate in sexy fun times with Maratelle and her girlfriend; he just shows up later as they toss the dismembered corpse of Brendol Hux off a cliff.


End file.
